


La Petite Mort

by FujinoLover



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Necrophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 14:26:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2655353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FujinoLover/pseuds/FujinoLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No God would accept the sin she was committing, she might as well plunge all the way down to the deepest hell while she was at it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Petite Mort

**Author's Note:**

> Translation to Chinese available at [La Petite Mort](http://daomeiliu.lofter.com/post/1cb452cd_3ea0d4a) by [claireqp](http://archiveofourown.org/users/claireqp/pseuds/claireqp)

 

The water was cold and red. She scrubbed her wrist even though the skin had turned pink. The handprint on it etched in her memory like a badly-healed scar, no matter how long it had gone. Her hands started trembling again. In hurry, she tugged out the paper towels from its dispenser by the sink, drying her hands quickly. She then had to grip onto the marble edge to still them. Looking up, she was greeted by the reflection of a woman whom she barely recognized as herself. Foreign swollen and bloodshot eyes stared back at her and she heaved a weary exhale.

 

Nowadays, their brush with Samaritan’s agents was too close for comfort. The team, sans Harold, was no longer able to escape without minimum fresh bullet hole. Her resilience was stretched thin. Between the deafening silence of her God, trying to outsmart another God, and constant change of identity, she was about to burst on the seams. What The Machine had taught her and Shaw were the anchors she desperately clutched at these days.

 

She was really lucky to bear only two grazes this time—one required stitches, the other a couple of butterfly-bandages, but both had stopped bleeding so they could wait. They _should_ wait. Her concern was on Shaw, who caught a bullet on the thigh. They had managed to staunch the bleeding with the makeshift tourniquet made of her hastily-pulled out belt, but there was blood. So much blood. She felt sick to her stomach whilst sewing the flesh back together, Shaw had not even grunted once.

 

The motel The Machine had led them to was dingy, with flaked paint and stale air. For all its undesirable characteristics, it won for its lack of surveillance camera and terrible cell phone reception. She waited until the wave of nausea had passed before stepping out of the too-small bathroom, running a hand through her messy hair while doing so. She groaned when she spotted Shaw exactly where she had left her, lying on the bed with bloody and torn pants she had cut to attend the wound earlier.

 

“Shaw...” There was tiredness in her tone, but she smirked lightly nonetheless. “We have to do something with your pants.”

 

Shaw ignored the innuendo, but let her move her feet up and put them on her lap. Methodically, she unlaced the boots then took them off, one by one. The blue socks underneath brought a small smile upon her lips; they were the only hidden-from-plain-view, non-black clothing article from her that Shaw had accepted to wear (not that she had not given her a couple of matching lingerie before, but they were more out of teasing than genuine affection and Shaw had flung them back to her face). They came off with ease, followed by the pants, which was harder to remove. The bandage was left undisturbed and no new red bloomed on its white surface, prompting a sigh of relief from her.

 

To lie down beside Shaw was an appealing idea at the moment. She longed for comfort, to reassure her restless heart that she was there and Shaw was there, they both had survived to fight another day. A hug, or even better, cuddling, would have sufficed. Yet knowing Shaw and her aversion for such intimate gesture, she had to adapt with her way, which had no in between. It was sex or no sex. So sex, it shall be.

 

Shaw did not raise a protest as she helped her to situate better on the bed, half leaning onto the headboard with pillows propping her back. She stripped off her own shoes and pants before straddling Shaw’s uninjured thigh, carefully nudging the other one away by slipping one knee in between her legs, then brought their lips together. In spite of the raging need coursing through her system, their kisses were lazy at most.

 

“Sameen...” She pouted; Shaw had clamped her teeth together and refused to let her deepen the kiss. “Don’t be so mean.”

 

She did not try again, though. It felt better staying like that. Apparently, although she did not explicitly state so, Shaw had agreed on her slow approach. It might have a lot to do with the amount of blood she had lost—her complexion was paler than normal, but nothing to be alarmed about—and the fatigue side-effect. Not that Shaw would ever admit such weaknesses, so she graciously let it slip without a mention.

 

They kissed like it was their last, deliberate and sweet. She parted only to divest herself of her blouse and bra then wiggle out of her panties. Shaw did not bother to even out the score, choosing to keep the rest of her clothes on. She huffed and took the matter on her own hands. It was harder to undress someone when they were being unhelpful about it. She struggled with Shaw’s tank top and black bra the most, but the reward was worth the effort.

 

As if being pulled by an unseen force, her hands went straight to the newly-exposed flesh, fondling their weights with a sense of familiarity. As expected, when she glanced up, Shaw had her eyes closed. Her very sparse reaction, even during sex, never ceased to leave her in an equal combination of awe for her self-control and frustration for the lack of verbal encouragement. She pinched one erect nipple between her thumb and forefinger, hoping to elicit at least a gasp, but all thoughts flew out of her mind the moment her bare crotch came in contact with Shaw’s toned thigh. She was the one who moaned, and yet grinding herself down all the same.

 

“Sameen...”

 

She bit her bottom lip and clenched her eyes shut, squeezing Shaw’s strong shoulders for leverage. A trail of slick wetness had painted Shaw’s skin. If she looked down, she was sure she would find Shaw grinning up at her while enjoying the show. Shaw had not even need to hold her hips to guide her, they willingly moved on their own accord. Each grind was harder than the one before it, hitting her clit with delicious pressure every single time.

 

She would come soon and she could not be so selfish. Making use of her long limb, she stretched one arm to fumble around the content of the nightstand’s drawer. On first inspection upon arrival, she had found a couple of new condoms and small tube of lubricant in it (the irony of an awful motel providing free goods for safe sex but no clean towel in its bathroom). However, she had reached too far inside and bumped with a solid block instead. From the corner of her eyes, she noted the lone bible and instantly scoffed. It did not stop her from taking out the lubricant to coat a couple of her left hand’s fingers. No God would accept the sin she was committing, she might as well plunge all the way down to the deepest hell while she was at it.

 

Shaw did not question the sudden change of her expression. Whatever she had wanted to say died on her tongue as she was being penetrated. She was tight and warm around her digits. When her hips undulated in faster pace, it propelled her fingers deeper into Shaw. They moved in synch, she was the more active part in bringing them to climax while Shaw lay back and enjoyed the ride. They kissed again, sloppier as their movement became jerky and desperate with time. Her cry was muffled by biting on Shaw’s shoulder. On the other hand, Shaw was ever so quiet as usual, but she did feel tighter. They were a messy tangle of limbs, then.

 

There were tears in her eyes as she pulled herself out. During their intense lovemaking, her sheer desperation had pushed Shaw down to lie back on the bed. She made a quick work to get them under the cover before lying on her side, hesitantly placing her head on Shaw’s shoulder after she soothed the teeth mark she had left there with a peck. Her whole body was tense, ready to dart the moment Shaw showed a sign of rejection for skin-to-skin contact. Fortunately, none came. She waited several long minutes before daring to tilt her head up, Shaw had her eyes closed so she was free to cast her with an adoring gaze as she pleased.

 

Tiny recollection of Shaw flitted through her mind, provoking a smile on her lips. Shaw was stun gun and zip-ties (plus hoods at the CIA safe house). Shaw was a bullet to her shoulder, shattering then dissolving the blind fury into despair and tears. Shaw was stealing jet to Alaska then beating explosive dealers in Miami and short date with fruity drinks afterwards. Shaw was dirt on cheek, tampered fence, and stolen bike in New Jersey. Shaw was grumpy make-up girl at Macy’s, whom, despite the front, took too much pleasure in making her look good for her job interview. Shaw was vials of level four viruses to be inactivated and all night of full decontamination it entailed.

 

Shaw was the blood spilling all over dark leather of the passenger seat; a damned bullet lodging in her femoral artery. Shaw was the hand grasping firmly on her wrist, leaving imprint made of dried blood before it slipped off and lay lifelessly on the side. Shaw was a grin of assurance—or was it a glare? Her eyes were too blurry with tears to spot the difference. Shaw was stilled chest, one that she kept hitting in hope it would somewhat give a jumpstart to the non-beating heart (there was no blood left to pump, not enough). Shaw was the name she screamed over and over again—not in the throes of passion—and received no response in return.

 

Shaw was her almost everything.

 

Shaw was _dead_.

 

Root had died along with her.

 

She no longer knew who she was at the moment. It was like the transition from Samantha Groves to Root all over again. Half of Samantha died when Hanna was kidnapped, then later, murdered. The other half hang on until her mother passed away. Then the ruthless, cunning hacker was born with the name Root. Unlike then, even though she had not had a name to go by this new version of herself, she had objections laid in front of her, clear like the tears she shed not a day ago.

 

Destroy Decima. Destroy Samaritan.

 

Despite the obvious course of action waiting to be carried out, she was reluctant to step out of this bubble she had created. The sun had set some time ago and the room was engulfed in darkness, but she continued to watch Shaw. If she disregarded the absence of pulse and breathe, she could fool herself into believing that Shaw was merely sleeping. Shame, it took death for them to finally cuddle and for her to freely study Shaw without threatening glare casted her way.

 

Under the occasional light coming from passing vehicles on the street, she could see her facial features, ones that she never had the chance to pay close attention to. Her finger was steady as it trailed a path down from Shaw’s hairline to the jaw; the muscles had begun to set in place. She took special notes on her long eyelashes and the contour of her lips, sighing when she recalled the feel of them massaging her own.

 

Tempted by the cruel memory, she leaned forward to peck Shaw on the corner of her lips. Young Samantha wondered if she kissed her fully and poured her whole heart to it, like in those fairytales where the prince woke the princess by true love’s kiss, or in this case, a princess waking up her knight, then Shaw would jerk awake, would scowl at her for being a sap but then kiss her back in that certain way that always stole her breath away. Root would have sneered at such ridiculousness, feigning disinterest although deep inside she shared the exact same sentiment. She—whoever she was—took her chances.

 

The familiar warmth was fainter, but still there, and if she pressed hard enough, she swore Shaw return the kiss. The delusion did not last long, not when there was no stable heartbeats resonated in the ribcage under her palm. A sob soon ripped out from her throat, wrecking her whole body as she clung into Shaw’s motionless frame like a lifeline. She cried and cried and cried, begging for the impossible in between hiccups. Her eyes were burning hot, dry of tears.

 

It was not until a single low beep came through her implant that she stopped altogether. It was an alert from The Machine, of the update on her persona. She did not care much about anything outside this motel room—outside this bed, at the moment, but she could not ignore her God. She had been silent and she could not help but wonder if She was affected by Shaw’s death as bad as she was.

 

She did.

 

For the first time, the perky psycho’s smile was back. She recognized the name hidden behind the phone's static because she had used it before.

 

_Augusta A. King, FBI agent._

 

Augusta had important things to do. Parting with Shaw was hard, but she could not stay either. She slipped out of the bed with renewed vigor, quickly getting dressed whilst multitasking. There was Harold and John to be called to retrieve Shaw’s body, Shaw’s mother to be informed (Root had met the older woman once and Shaw was right, her mother would love anyone she brought home to be introduced as a potential life partner, man or woman, as long as they were able to make her smile and Root excelled on doing so), and a proper funeral—one that she would not be able to attend—to be arranged. So little time, so much to do.

 

“I’ll see you soon, Sameen,” Augusta whispered after giving Shaw one last parting kiss. “Along with everyone else.”

 

The power plant in Tulsa, as it turned out to be, was not the only nuclear-based facility Agent King had gained indefinite access of when she joined the Bureau. She was more than happy to employ Root’s skill, hacking on the military’s system to set off thousands of nuclear warheads they had and annihilate Samaritan for good, regardless of the casualties it would cause all over the world. The Machine had shared the same understanding with her on this particular matter. Humanity was definitely overrated.

 


End file.
